As usual, Underthenorthernlights beta read this chapter. Thank you so much UTNL!

Author's notes: As Rickon makes an appearance in this chapter, I wanted to warn you that this is how I imagined him, in the future, but it's just my version of this character. I based his behavior on my observations: I met some children who grew up only surrounded by adults and who faced difficult moments. They often behave this way.

The moment she heard her young brother's voice, Sandor noticed that Sansa seemed to forget about him and hurried to the entrance door. Head-hanging, Sandor stayed in the bedroom for a few heartbeats then he followed her, whispering to himself like a mantra: Might as well say a quick hello and get down to business. He knew that meeting the Northerners would be no pleasure cruise.

With his gimpy leg, he sounded like he dragged his feet on the floor and he couldn't help frowning at the thought that the Northerners would pity him. Sandor nonetheless headed to the entrance door, ready to endure their wary looks when they would notice his scars. And remember who I am. Just like his scars, his bad reputation was indelible.

When he reached the main room, Sansa was hugging a tall kid with long auburn hair and bright eyes. This one must be her little brother, Rickon. As Sansa stepped back to welcome her great-uncle and the three more young men crammed in the doorway, Sandor noticed the boy's worn out T-shirt, with one sleeve torn and Ian Curtis' face on it. Joy Division. I see. The kid knows the classics, at least. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Rickon Stark shot him a curious look - not that unpleasant stare revealing any kind of disgust, but his eyes shone with interest, leaving Sandor dumbfounded.

Standing on tiptoe, Sansa placed a light kiss on her uncle's gray temple, and the tall and lean old man beamed at her. They exchanged a few words in an undertone and Sandor understood that, behind his large grin, Brynden Tully still worried for her. Under his bushy eyebrows, he had those blue eyes Sansa and her brother Rickon had inherited from her mother. In the end, the old man clapped his hands once, moving forward so that the Northerners could come in.

Sandor shook hands with Rickon, then with Brynden Tully, before Sansa introduced the three young men who had come to help them. "This is Marlon Manderly, Wyman Manderly's cousin," she said with a bright smile, as a tall, stout man in his thirties stepped forward. He nodded curtly then he patted Sansa's shoulder with a grin. As he did so, he turned slightly to face the girl and Sandor saw the man had some gray hair. "Marlon, this is Sandor." She paused, before self consciously adding: "Sandor Clegane."

Nobody commented, but Rickon chuckled mercilessly at his sister's embarrassment, so that Ian Curtis' face on his shirt joggled strangely. Brynden Tully nudged the kid, without much success, and Sansa resumed her introduction. "So... Brandon Norrey Jr. His father and mine were old friends..." Said Brandon Norrey was short and thin compared to Marlon Manderly; he was also younger and there was a gleam of mischief in his eyes. Lifting his right hand, he quickly brushed his temple with two fingers, thus mimicking the salute. Whether it was a random gesture or an aforethought allusion to Sandor's past in armed forces, it was a mystery. He looks like a fox, with his red hair and his mustache, Sandor mused.

"And finally my friend Harmond Umber," Sansa said, her voice tinged with pride. She didn't even feel the need to tell Sandor who he was to her family or if his father was an old friend of Eddard Stark: Sandor read this as a proof of their complicity. This one, almost as tall as Sandor and brawny, was certainly in favor: he squeezed Sansa in his arms, making her squeal in the process, then he burst out laughing. As far as Sandor could tell, the giant was the same age as Sansa: a younger, more attractive and more likeable version of himself. And to think he's a Northerner, on top of that.

"I missed you, kiddo," the giant said cheerfully, tousling her brown hair.

What was that? Sandor's doubts came back instantly as the bond existing between these two became tangible with each passing second. Half-laughing, Sansa accused Harmond not to answer her texts, jabbing a finger at his muscled chest; the young man stroke his stubble with amusement, observing his friend with a telltale smile that said "I know you've got a soft spot for me." In the end, Harmond Umber seemed to realize the world wasn't limited to Sansa and himself; he stepped forward and shook hands with Sandor, looking at him straight in the eyes. He's not even unpleasant: life is unfair.

"Let's get started," Brynden Tully suggested, rubbing a hand on his beard. "Can we look around the property, Sansa?"

She nodded at that and showed them the open kitchen, with a place for the fridge the Northerners had brought with them.

"Are you tired?" Sansa asked as they examined the main room and the view onto the swimming-pool. "Everything went smoothly?"

Rickon snorted. "Marlon didn't tell you, sis? The moving van he had rented overturned in the ditch with all your stuff."

"Very funny, Rickon."

"Everything's alright," Marlon said, his booming voice resonating strangely in the empty space of the living room. "I drove the moving van and I managed not to kill these two assholes, while your uncle Brynden and this runt you call your brother took their car."

"We got up at 4 o'clock to be here at noon, like we said, baby." Brandon grinned smugly under his mustache.

"If you have a couch, it should be placed here," Sandor intervened, showing the wall opposite to the entrance door. Hiding his annoyance was more difficult than he thought and Rickon had probably noticed it, for he chuckled nervously. Sansa nodded and led them to the bathroom, then to her bedroom. The moment Brynden Tully set eyes on the family portrait in its frame, he placed his large hand on Sansa's shoulder.

"I'm fine," she said, stubborn as ever. "Can we go to the moving van, now?"

One minute later, they were outside and Marlon Manderly opened the van containing Sansa's furniture and possessions. Among the random IKEA furniture, Sandor noticed a table with its chairs and a bookcase carefully wrapped in moving blankets. He assumed this furniture came from her parents' home, Winterfell. Sansa climbed inside the trailer and inspected them, putting aside the blanket whenever she could and running her slender fingers on the wooden surface. Satisfied, she turned to them and they began to carry the furniture inside.

Amongst all the consequences of his wound - the never-ending stay at the hospital, the rehabilitation, the pain that came back with every bad turn in the weather, the fact that he limped - there was one thing Sandor hated: not being able to do what he used to do before. That, and inappropriate sollicitude. He bit the bullet whenever people expressed their pity towards him. In this case, Marlon politely refused his help to carry the couch and asked Rickon instead, making him feel like he was useless.

Sansa probably sensed it, for she beckoned Sandor to follow her inside the apartment where boxes already waited for someone to empty them. He champed at the bit while the young Northerners carried the furniture and Sansa's brand new fridge, still wrapped in plastic.

"Someone needs to unwrap it and to plug it in," she observed once the Northerners left, eager to carry the imposing bookcase and to show their strength to each other.

They unwrapped the silvery refrigerator, before removing the foam core and they placed it at the exact spot Sansa had chosen, moving the device inch by inch, with great care. In the end, Sandor crouched to plug the fridge in while Sansa admired her kitchen.

"You do a lot of cooking?" she asked him. She sounded matter-of-fact.

"Do you fucking picture me with a chef's hat?" he growled, raising to his full height. "What about you, Little Bird?"

She laughed. "It- it depends. It's different if I'm alone or if I have guests." Maybe he was having visions, but she seemed to blush prettily after that. However, he didn't have much time to ponder over her attitude: her dear friend Harmond had just come in. Beaming at Sansa, he walked toward her and made her spin on her heels so that he was right behind her.

"Look at the fridge and tell me what you think, Harmond," she said cheerfully. Harmond's hands rested on her shoulders but she didn't seem to pay attention, as if it was something usual. "We placed it this way. I think it's more convenient and-"

Sandor didn't listen to the rest; he already felt like an intruder and he didn't want to interrupt anything - even if Harmond had been the one who had interrupted them. Dozens of questions churned in his head: if she was in love with this boy, why did she choose to move? Was Harmond ready to follow her and to find a job there? In this case, she had rented this apartment not only for herself but with the idea Harmond would join her soon. Why is she playing with me? The notion she might be toying with his feelings - assuming he had feelings for her - hurt Sandor more deeply than he had imagined. Her attitude earlier in the bedroom, when she had cried on his shoulder came down to this: a farce and he had been taken for a ride. So that's it: she wanted someone's help for today and here I am, torturing myself because I believed she wanted me to be here for another reason than just carrying boxes.

He was furious at himself and as usual when irritation took hold of him, he regretted his exercise bench and his dumbbells; exercise soothed his nerves and he had found this way to deal with anger since he had moderated his alcohol consumption. Jaw clenched, he dwelt on his rage and went outside. Rickon was there, puffing and panting inside the trailer: he tried to carry a box full of tableware. Sansa's little brother was sixteen or so, according to Sandor, and he wasn't muscled like his older companions.

"Can you help me, dude?" Rickon asked. At least someone needs my help.

Sandor didn't like being called 'dude' in the boxing gym and he didn't like it outside either. He didn't raise his voice about it though; he climbed inside the trailer and he silently took one handle of the box while Rickon took the other one.

"So tell me something," Rickon began as they carried the heavy box out of the moving van. "My sister claims she stumbled upon you at the hospital where she works. Is that true?" Putting down the box after he got down from the trailer, he pushed back the long, unruly hair that hid his face.

"Why would Sansa lie to you?" Sandor countered.

"I don't know." Despite his innocent gaze, Rickon looked like some fucking boy too smart for his own good, who knew exactly why his sister would lie to him. "She thought you were dead, man."

By the end of the day, he'll call me 'Sir', Sandor told himself, a sarcastic smile tugging the corner of his mouth. "Hold on a minute," he told Rickon as they resumed their task. "If this box goes in the kitchen, we should wait."

Rickon's blue eyes widened like saucers. "Why? What's happening in the kitchen?" he asked, feigning sheer panic. Sandor, who wasn't in the mood for jokes, rolled his eyes. "What?" Rickon insisted.

"Your sister is in the kitchen with her... friend."

Rickon arched an eyebrow. "Her friend? Yes…" He put down the box but never stopped staring at Sandor. "Let's give them some privacy, then," he suggested, smiling with a knowing look. There was something disturbing about Rickon, because he sometimes spoke like a spoiled brat, while his candid eyes belied his mannerism. Sandor soon realized Rickon was about to laugh; he glared at him, just like he did when one of the boys he trained at the boxing gym misbehaved.

"You should see your face, man!" Rickon said, repressing a fit of laughter.

Sandor didn't understand why the sight of a man who had most likely let the chance pass him by was so funny.

His mood was somber during the lunch - Sansa had ordered pizzas and they had eaten in the main room, sitting on cardboard boxes that still contained books. Sandor wasn't sure anyone had noticed his silent hostility because Brandon Norrey spent his time telling jokes instead of eating and the rest of their little group laughed heartily.

The afternoon was a sad repetition of what had happened before lunch: the Northerners carried the remaining furniture, pieced together Sansa's bed and her desk, while Brynden Tully and Sansa put away the tableware and knickknack. Sandor ended up with Rickon again, arranging books in the bookshelf. Medicine, novels, poetry, leather bound books… He didn't know she possessed so many books and he didn't know either why these books should be sorted by domain then by alphabetical order.

"Looks like we've been punished," Rickon observed in an undertone, rearranging a book Sandor had put at the wrong place. His sister was within hearing range and he seemed to fear her reaction if she ever listened. "You look sulky," the boy added.

"We're almost done," Sandor explained. "Your sister still has some stuff to arrange in her closets and in the kitchen cupboards, but frankly, I feel like she doesn't need my help. I can't even carry furniture with my gimpy leg, or so they say."

He didn't even try to hide his resentment towards the Northerners. For a change, the brat didn't know how to reply and they resumed their task in silence.

"There's a problem with the sink." Sansa's voice came from the bathroom, and Sandor turned his head instantly, thus making Rickon chuckle once more. When her slender frame appeared in the doorway, she set her eyes on Sandor and he felt suddenly weak. "There's a problem with the sink in the bathroom," she said again. "Could you have a look, Sandor? Please."

How could he refuse her anything? He left Rickon with the damn books, followed her to the bathroom. With its small hexagonal tiles on the floor and the large ones, black and pink, on the walls, it looked like the bathrooms of the first half of the twentieth century, although the shower and the pedestal sink were rather new. Sandor was certain this large, vintage bathroom was one of the things that had made her choose this apartment. After a quick look at the sink, he announced would need the tool box he kept in his truck.

Five minutes later, he was lying on the tiled floor, and he tried to unscrew the U-bend. The bathroom vanity was a random wooden shelf hidden by a curtain; Sandor had placed it in a corner to access the U-bend. The damn thing resisted, as if it was stuck. Sandor grimaced, stifled a curse and finally unscrewed it.

"Can you give me a plastic basin?" he asked her. She was standing by the sink and from where he was, he had a low-angle view on her long legs. Lovely. Lovely and cruel too, when he thought of the giant from the North who made her laugh so easily, it seemed. Sansa mumbled something, turned around and held out the basin he needed."Whoever lived here didn't see fit to unblock the U-bend," he added, shifting and sitting up.

The stench made her wrinkle her pretty nose when a heap of hair and filth fell in the basin with a squelch.

"There's something else," she whispered, once he was done. "I turned on the faucet, but I can't get hot water."

Sandor got on his feet with a grunt and tried the faucet, under Sansa's scrutiny. The water running on his fingers was cold, like Sansa had said. Suddenly having an idea, he turned the faucet all the way to the right, and then quickly removed his hand: the water went piping hot in no time and the burn briefly tinted his skin with pink.

"They inverted the cold and hot water. An easy mistake to make," he explained, turning to her and taking in her sight. Even with her denim overall and her tank top, she was stunning; Sandor made a tremendous effort not to drool over her but the closeness was something difficult for him to handle.

"I'm- I'm going to fix this," he said, feeling like he faltered before her like a fucking schoolboy.

"I don't want to bother you with this. It doesn't matter, as long as I know-"

"My pleasure." He was already crouching, trying to figure out which pipes had been inverted. The crouching position soon became uncomfortable and he lied down flat on his back again, extending his arms to reach the pipes.

"Are you angry at me, Sandor?" Her question felt like a punch in his guts. Is it that obvious?

"No, I'm not." His tone was too dry not to belie his words.

She knelt beside him and suddenly he could have a look at the sad smile on her face. "No need to pretend, Sandor. I know you are."

He stopped fumbling with the pipes and bored into her eyes. "Your friends made it clear; I'm not able to carry furniture, because of my leg. I feel like I'm good for nothing. I'm hardly able to arrange your books."

"But you're fixing the sink!" she protested, her high-pitched voice exuding disbelief.

"Any of your friends could have done this. I'm not mad at you, rather at myself for believing I could be of some use. I feel like I don't belong here." These last words summed up pretty much all he had experienced since his childhood.

Sansa sighed, head-hanging. "I'm sorry. I wanted you to be here. I never imagined you would-"

"Forget it, girl." Clenching his jaw, he focused on the pipes. "Could you turn off the water inlet?"

She stayed still for a heartbeat, staring at him, then she stood up and left the bathroom. Congratulations: she's gone. Sandor rued his habit to rebuff people while anyone else simply complained; with his last remark, he had made sure she wouldn't come back to him. Worse, at the end of the day, she would thank him with a forced smile. I'm an asshole. She'll never want to see me again and she'll be right: she deserves someone better than a social outcast with a gimpy leg.

A sigh escaped his lips; frowning, he asked himself if it was a sigh of frustration, because it was over and she would never forgive his foolish attitude. Perhaps he was relieved after all because it was over and he would leave the gray area where everything was possible, where he spent his time debating with himself about the slightest thing Sansa had done or said, trying to know what it meant. He would be soon in his comfort zone, going from the boxing gym to his house next to the woods. An occasional visit to the hospital, where he would make sure he didn't meet her. He had a curious sensation at the back of his mouth, but he refused to admit it was a lump in his throat.

Now that the water inlet was turned off, it was easy to switch the pipes. He concentrated on his task, with the faint hope that useful work could make him forget he was a bastard who rejected Sansa Stark's tender heart with obstinacy. You don't allow anyone to come to you, the Elder Brother had told him, during one of their first conversations. I didn't even learn my lesson, concerning her; I deserve all the bad things that happened to me, especially the fact that I'll die alone.

Yet Sansa had said something that puzzled him: I wanted you to be here. She had whispered these words with a pained look, and she probably meant it. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Am I the only person whom she said these words or did the Northern boys scouts heard that too? Before he could decide, the door opened again and Sansa's mile long legs came into his field of vision. Both astonished and hesitating, he decided to remain silent.

He expected her to ask if he needed something or if he was almost done, but instead of restricting herself to the role of the perfect lady of the house, she surprised Sandor by kneeling next to him, then lying down so close her bare upper arm brushed the sleeve of his checkered shirt.

"I want to learn," she said quietly, " so that I can do it myself. Teach me." Her voice, poised and soft, didn't express the exasperation he had deserved for rebuking her five minutes before. The smell of her hair, light and floral, tickled his nose, and somehow forced him to pay attention to her and to her only; it felt like their worlds were colliding, hers invading his. There was nothing to do against that. Nothing at all. Just yield.

Lying flat on her back, next to Sandor, she looked intently at him, and although the sink above their heads partially blocked the light, he could tell her blue eyes shone with determination. Unintendedly, he glanced at her cleavage. The wall lamp lit the front patch of her overall and a part of her white tank top underneath it; as they were both lying under the sink, shadows moved with the slow rise and fall of her chest. That sight, combined to the scent of her hair, was intoxicating. Fuck, she's too close. She seemed to blush. Back to square one. Say something. Now.

He cleared his throat. "What- what do you want to learn?"

"Plumbing basics, if that makes sense."

He showed her the U-bend, told her she needed to unblock it from time to time and explained her how easy it was. "There's one thing you should not forget," he said in the end. "If it's not the U-bend or if you feel lazy, you can call me."

"So you don't feel useless?" Her pleading eyes bored into his, and he felt like she needed reassurance. As for him, he certainly needed to keep her lying next to him: it wasn't time to send her packing.

"No, I don't feel useless." An awkward silence stretched in the bathroom until Rickon's boyish voice reached them, somewhere else in the apartment, like a faraway sound. "Well, I've fixed the pipes, so you won't scald yourself when you turn on the faucet to get some cold water."

Sansa was so close she somewhat prevented him from getting on his feet. He contorted himself as she remained still but she stopped him. "Wait a minute! You have a tattoo on your chest now? I remembered the small ones on your arms, but not that tattoo."

His shirt had opened while he squirmed to lie down or to get on his feet, most likely, revealing the letter S in gothic style, upstrokes and downstrokes of dark ink on his rather pale skin.

He stopped wriggling and rolled on one side, facing her. "Seeing me shirtless by the swimming-pool once when we both lived with the Lannisters doesn't give you a right to judge my tattoos," he retorted, frowning but playful. Leaning on his elbow, he watched her cheeks and throat redden with an inexplicable sense of pride. Talking with her - could he say flirting with her? - felt good. Fuck, I missed that, too.

She laughed and locked eyes with him, before pushing aside the fabric of his shirt. "An S. Interesting. What does it mean? S for Sandor?" she offered. Her full lips curled up as she smiled, promising sweet kisses and songs hummed next to his ear, tempting him.

"Nope." The feel of her fingers on his chest was thrilling, but he still considered it dangerous. Sandor wondered if the losses Brynden Tully had experienced these last years had made him overprotective towards his nephew and niece; he took her small hand in his, not ungently, and he put it back on her belly. It could be all in his mind, but her breathing became faster and it drew Sandor's attention on her breasts. He hardened instantly.

"So what is it?" she asked again. "If you persist in keeping quiet, I'm going to believe there's something you don't want to tell me."

Basically, she hit the nail on the head. He didn't want her to know what the letter S on his chest, right above the heart, was for, and at the same time he died in want, to tell her. Regaining his composure, he stared Sansa down. "Take a wild guess," he rasped, challenging her. Now that he was lying on his side, he almost leaned over her.

She bit her lip and it became obvious that she loved the game they were playing - although there was something akin to apprehension in her eyes, because she didn't know what she was about to discover.

"S for snail? shoe? squirrel?" she enumerated. He slowly shook his head without ever breaking the eye contact. "S for-" She paused, hesitating, and anticipation set his pulse racing. Say it. Deep down you know what it means.

The door flung open and Rickon came in uninvited. "What the fuck are you two doing here, on the bathroom floor?" he asked, dumbfounded and amused in equal parts. The sight of his sister lying flat on her back on the tiles while a man he barely knew leaned over her, was certainly entertaining for a teenager with a twisted mind. And to think she had her hand on my chest a minute before...

"Rickon, why do you always feel the need to curse like a sailor?" Sansa retorted, hiding her embarrassment under outrage. The proper little lady is back. She scrambled to her feet.

"Two things, sis," he said with his smartass tone. "First, "fuck" is not even a curse. I mean not anymore." Sansa tried to cut him off, put he pointed at her commandingly. "And I thought you liked guys who swear like troopers." Rickon gave his sister a devilish look. What was that?

Sansa glared at her brother and hurried to the kitchen. In the meanwhile, Rickon observed Sandor who was still lying on the tiled floor. Sandor didn't want to look like he fled the battleground; he slowly sat up, then got on his feet.

"We fixed the sink," he told the boy. As he walked to the door, he stopped by Rickon and towered above the brat.

"Yeah, I see that. Your shirt is unbuttoned, man."

Sandor shook his head disapprovingly and left the bathroom. In the empty hallway, he tried to suppress the stupid grin on his face, without much success.

At the end of the afternoon, Rickon sprawled on the couch and stared at the ceiling, blissfully happy. "I love this place," he announced. "It's sunny, compared to Winterfell, there's a swimming-pool and the neighbor's daughters are hot."

"Rickon!" Sansa protested.

"I tell you, sis, next month, when school is over, I'll come to visit you. And the neighbor's daughters." With a wicked grin, he stretched his limbs and closed his eyes, as if ready to take a nap.

Brynden Tully came closer silently then kicked his nephew's leg that dangled out of the couch. "Time to go, Rickon. If you don't want to spend the whole night on the road, we should leave your sister now."

Rickon grumbled, made faces and finally jumped on his feet. "It's unfair! I didn't come here to carry boxes and to unpack; I don't know shit about carrying boxes. I came for the party."

"Who told you there's a party?"

"There's always a party after," Rickon retorted, brushing back a lock of his hair. "That's when things become interesting." His enigmatic smile underlined his mischievous tone and it made his sister roll her eyes. Sandor asked himself what the kid suggested by this. Leaning against the doorframe, he observed the whole scene, amused by Sansa's exasperated look whenever she set her eyes on Rickon.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" Sansa asked her uncle, deliberately offering her back to her brother. "It's a long road. The boys told me they'll stay for dinner and-"

"I'd like to stay, sweetie," Brynden replied, "but this young man has a Calculus exam on monday and he needs to review differential calculus. Or whatever it is he learned this semester." With a pat on Rickon's shoulder, he laughed heartily.

By his side Rickon looked exaggeratingly defeated, his hunched shoulders and his sheepish expression meant to move his sister to pity.

"You want to make me cry or something?" she told him, cupping his chin. She didn't even sound surprised the kid overdid it.

Rickon was already taller than Sansa, yet at that very moment, as she was standing in front of her younger brother, Sandor had an inkling of what the last months had been like for her. She had taken care of Rickon since the day she had come back, supervising his homework, making sure he didn't mix with the wrong kind, meeting his teachers. She had been his mother figure, always sweet and tender, but scolding him when necessary. As she looked intently in Rickon's eyes, telling him to give her a call if he needed help with his Calculus lesson, Sandor foresaw the mother she would become one day, devoted, anxious about her children and always loving. Witnessing this scene, so common for most people, but so unfamiliar for Sandor made him feel strange. There was something deep down he couldn't quite place and he decided it was probably time for him to go back home.

Brynden Tully already walked toward him, smiling, his open look contrasting with the attitude Sandor had expected from him at first. "It was nice to meet you," the old man said, giving him a firm handshake. "You'll keep an eye on the little one for me, right?" he added in an undertone.

"Always," Sandor replied. Saying he was touched by this token of trust was an understatement.

"Hey, buddy!" Rickon sang out, hamming it up. While Brynden Tully walked away to take leave from the other Northerners, the kid planted himself in front of Sandor and flashed a smile. "I'm sure we'll meet again soon. Thanks for your help with all these damn boxes… and on behalf of my sister, thanks for the sink."

Too mortified to say anything, Sandor mumbled something and shook the kid's hand hard enough to crush it. After that, Rickon exchanged a few words with the three young men who waited by the entrance door; Harmond Umber tousled Rickon's long hair and Brynden Tully finally opened the door.

"I'd better go home, now," Sandor announced.

Sansa shook her head. "You stay and have dinner with us. I won't take no for an answer." She glared at him as he asked if that was what she really wanted. Alright, then.

"Drive safe!" Sansa told her uncle and her brother. "Oh, and Rickon… behave!"

The brat turned around and pointed at her playfully. "You, behave!" The last of his smug smiles was for Sandor and suddenly the entrance door snapped shut.

Sansa brought her hands on her hips and swept the main room, looking at the three Northerners and the tall, disfigured man who stood away from them. Her brother's last remark had bothered her, on the evidence of her blushing cheeks, but she tried to save face. "Everyone likes Chinese food?" she asked.

Sandor had never imagined Rickon's departure could have that effect on him, but it was obvious: since the kid and his uncle were gone, he felt - again - he didn't belong there. What did he have in common with the three young men who looked at Sansa with puppy-dog eyes? Even though Harmond, the one who managed to get most of Sansa's attention, seemed a decent guy - Sandor acknowledged it with reluctance, but he knew it was true - he had nothing to tell him, and he certainly didn't have anything to say to the two other ones: Marlon, with his beer bottle glued to his hand and his bovine eyes, looked like a curmudgeon. Brandon, on the contrary, had straddled one of Sansa's precious chairs and he jabbered on, his red mustache constantly moving above his mouth; Sandor was happy the guy was out of his reach - otherwise he would have slapped him in the face.

As luck would have it, Sansa had beckoned him to sit in the couch, next to Harmond. Although the couch was a large one, there wasn't room for a third person once they were both settled down; she thus sat cross-legged on the floor, at Sandor's feet. Her unceremonious posture surprised him; there were chairs available, but she overlooked them. She thus was at the center of their small circle, laughing at Brandon's jokes, smiling to cheer up the taciturn Marlon and nudging Harmond from time to time.

At first, he asked himself why she had insisted until he agreed to stay for dinner, as she had her back to him; since Rickon and Brynden Tully's departure, they had not exchanged more than two words. After he had eaten half of his chow mein, he put the takeout box on his lap, his chopsticks stuck into what remain of his noodles and he considered leaving. He only needed an excuse of sorts to leave the girl with her three Northerner beaus. That was when Sansa shifted and brushed his leg again. The first time, Sandor had told himself it was an accident. How many accidents does it take to become intentional? Before he could figure out the answer, she glanced around her shoulder and looked up at him smiling. Once more, the promises he saw in that smile got the better of his doubts. When she turned around again, his resolution had weakened.

"Don't you want to sit down on a chair?" Brandon asked Sansa. "Don't tell me you're comfortable, sitting like this."

Shut the fuck up. Sansa chuckled, caught with a forkful of noodles on its way to her mouth. "Actually, it's more comfortable than it seems." To demonstrate her point, she sat back, thus leaning against Sandor's leg. "You don't mind if I use your leg as a cushion?" she asked him, throwing her head back until the back of her head partly rested on his knee.

"You know I don't," was all he could offer.

There was an embarrassed silence afterwards: it had happened earlier in the evening when Harmond and Sansa exchanged one of these inside-jokes that delighted them. Sandor felt awkward, but it was like being back in the game. Besides, he might have finally understood why Sansa had chosen that place close to him rather than another one: she had her back to him and they didn't talk most of the time, but sitting cross-legged at his feet allowed her to remind him he wasn't alone by brushing his calf or by leaning against his leg. I'm here with you, said the warmth emanating from her upper back.

He stopped wondering if he should leave and turned his thoughts in another direction. What would happen afterward? Was he supposed to leave when the Northerners would say goodbye? Did she want him to stay? Sandor knew exactly what he wanted, every fiber of his being shouted he needed to stay with her, yet he admitted it was either strange or creepy depending on the point of view: they had met again a few days ago and he couldn't just pretend the last seven years had left no trace. Besides, there were a couple of things to sort out, like the way he had abandoned her years before or the awkwardness underlying their exchanges back then. Fuck, that's too much. He wished Sansa told him to stay with her, but it was only a wish, as silly and unrealizable as those wishes he had when he was eight. I wish my scars could fade. I wish Mom was with me again. The notion Sansa could tell him to stay was just as unlikely. Is it even a good thing if I stay tonight, so shortly after we met again?

Brandon Norrey kept telling jokes while his food was cooling down. As for Sandor, he tried to get past his future disappointment by enjoying the contact of Sansa's upper back and shoulders. I'm not ready, he told himself. I wish I was, I wish things were simpler. Everything was confused in his mind and beer didn't help untangling his problems.

All of a sudden, Sansa shifted and turned around, resting her elbow on his knee. She held out her takeout box to him. "Want to trade? What's in yours?"

"Chicken chow mein. What did you order?" he asked in response.

"Shrimps. I love shrimps." She smiled, grabbed the box resting on his lap and gave him hers.

Even though Brandon went on with his uninteresting japes, Sandor felt the others' gaze weighed heavily on him, as if they finally noticed his presence. He nevertheless tasted the shrimps she had left for him. Sansa's constant thoughtfulness towards him was a surprise for the Northerners. Whether they viewed him as a useless stranger, assumed his scars and his limp would disgust Sansa, or not they had refused to see him like a rival. Since her uncle and brother were gone though, Sansa took a perverse pleasure in showing them Sandor was as close to her than the three of them. Neither the young years spent near Sansa's hometown nor the fact their families were friends with the Starks changed anything. Unbidden, the lyrics of the song he had heard that morning in Sansa's car came back:

I've been wondering whether later when you tell everybody to go,

Will you pour me one for the road?

Would she find an excuse to keep him after the Northerners were gone? A part of him wished she did, while conscience told him it was too soon. Sandor could almost hear the Elder Brother's voice advising him: no need to rush. He snorted at that, but as Brandon had just told them the punchline of one of his countless jokes, the others thought he was enjoying Northern humor.

The conversation wound down and the Northerners began to talk about how they would take turns to drive back home. Brandon suggested with a wicked smile he could stay there while his companions headed North; Sansa didn't even reply. Finally, Harmond got on his feet with a sigh; he told Sansa it was pitch-dark and they should leave. They exchanged a few more words about people they knew in the North. In the meanwhile, Sandor went to the bathroom, took his tool box and walked back to the entrance door.

"Already leaving?" she asked Sandor. She seemed disappointed, but the next moment she was talking to the Northerners again and he didn't know what to think. I'm a grown man, am I not supposed to see when she wants me to stay or not?

They all exited the apartment and walked to the parking lot. Under the halo of a street lamp, Sandor shook hands with the Northerners; they hugged Sansa. At that very moment, Sandor should have waved goodbye and limped along to his truck, a little further on the parking lot, yet his feet refused to obey and his stayed there, a few yards from Sansa. Brandon found another story to tell, just to play for time, then Harmond motioned them inside the moving van. By his gesture, the tall Northerner seemed to acknowledge they could only retreat, that Sansa had made a choice of sorts and it was time for them to go back home. Harmond's eyes briefly met Sandor's as he slid into the moving van; there was no hostility in his eyes, just the feeling that he might have let the chance pass him by. It felt strange to read on someone else's expression what he had experienced these last few days.

Marlon started up the van, put it in reverse while Sansa waved at them and finally the moving van crossed the parking lot before disappearing in the night. Sansa exhaled a deep sigh.

"Are you alright?" he rasped, taking a step toward her.

"Yes. I'm exhausted but I'll be just fine." Perhaps it was a groundless impression, but her voice sounded shaky. "What about you? You must be dead tired."

"I should go, now." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he gave her whatever twisted smile his half-burnt lips could form. He had made up his mind: staying was a bad idea even though he read in her blue eyes she wanted him to linger. She was confused too, if the way she bit her bottom lip was any indication. Perhaps is she as confused as I am.

"There's something I wanted to tell you," she whispered as he took tentative steps to give her a last hug. Her faraway look worried him. "I just- got divorced. My lawyer says they will send me the official paper soon. Anyways, I never got a chance to celebrate so far." She glanced at him, embarrassed. "It would be weird to go out in this town I don't know, so… will you join me?" Again, she bit her lip. Under the street light, with her ponytail and her denim overall, she looked so vulnerable he resisted the urge to take her in his arms.

"Of course, I'll come. Whatever you want."

His heart pounding wildly in his chest, he closed the distance between them and hugged her briefly, his nose brushing her hair. That scent, again.

"Sleep tight, Little Bird," he murmured. "And call me when you need something."

He walked backwards to his tool box, then he took it and walked to his truck. She was leaning, her back against the entrance door of her apartment, looking intently at him as he drove away, across the deserted parking lot.

Thank you all for reading!

To Guest: So glad you like the way I describe Sandor's reactions… You know what it's like, it's sometimes difficult to know if you keep him in character or not. Thank you for your encouraging words!

To Anon: I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I had fun writing the scenes with Rickon… I'll do my best to update on a regular basis… Thank you!

To Tanakacchi: I can't agree more with you about these seven years they spent without seeing each other; there will be hints about what happened to them during this time… Besides, you're right to say it makes their relationship more complex and more complicated, because of all these things they never had a chance to talk about. However, the reason why I chose to write it that way is that I'm more comfortable with a romance between them when Sansa is a bit older - like most readers, I think.

Thank you so much for your support!

To Westeroswolf: The tattoo isn't a mystery anymore if you read this chapter; I hope you're not disappointed though! Thanks for reviewing.